North State Voices: Underclassmen manage to take fun out of splatterball

We the underclassmen were on one side, upperclassmen on the other. Volleyballs were placed on the center court line, and each side began at the out-of-bounds line on our respective sides.

Coach Zuckerman would blow the whistle, and each side would race toward the middle to get to the balls and, in essence, splatter the participants on the opposing sides. If you caught the ball, the person who threw it was subsequently out.

As you can imagine, any wholehearted effort to get to the balls by an underclassman would be met with swift and painful ramifications. When the balls hit the wall we found ourselves up against, it would make a resounding, ear-shattering, booming sound. When you were splattered you were out, and when the last man was out the game was over.

As you can probably see where I'm going with this, we actually had a run of luck. We managed to whittle down the opposition. Their two hardest throwers remained, though. A shot to the head would have reeled a classmate unconscious. I was fast when I was younger and I managed to be the last man on our side standing.

This was a painful dilemma for me, because I was being groomed for the set-up, where both of the opposing players hurled their balls, one high and one low, at the same time, and you can imagine the typical results.

I had a ball, so I could block one. Of course, I was going to block the high ball, but I had the audacity, to think I could jump up and over the other. I tried it and felt the low ball hit my right knee, and I blocked the boilermaker to the head. As the sting in my right knee began, I came down, and I felt something with my left knee.

I had to look down to confirm what had really just transpired. There, tucked between my knees, was the other volleyball. I looked over at the stands, and there was a long hush, followed by looks of amazement.

Probably in the first time in the history of Willows High School, an underclassman had an upperclassman running backward.

We exchanged a few shots and I judged it would have been humiliating if this didn't end soon. I ran forward, scooped up the ball and closed in on him. Before he could get all the way back, I delivered a deadly blister of a throw at his right knee. He made a haphazard attempt to catch it. It hit his right hand and he was out.

Exhilaration and disbelief ruled the gym. The coaches had long grins on their faces.

Underclassmen raced onto the court eager for the final game. When the whistle blew, we were giving as good as we got. We had the psychological advantage, and showed no sign of giving it up. I got hit, and was all too grateful to go to the sidelines. Another volley flew, underclassmen dodging and throwing, all while holding the center line. We were going to win this one, too.

Then, Coach Zuckerman did something very wise. He blew the whistle. "Hit the showers," he yelled.

The underclassmen whooped all the way out of their gym clothes and into the showers. The showers jetted, the steam welled up into our eyes, the upperclassmen rambled dejectedly into the locker room, and that was it. It was over.

No one ever mentioned it again. No recounts. No bragging. And we never played splatterball again, ever.

Rodney Cooper is an Artois resident and columnist for North State Voices, which appears each Thursday. Follow him on Twitter, @Rodney_Cooper.